


Desk Duties

by wendymr



Series: The Ashes Series [5]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is recovering from the bullet-wound he sustained saving Robbie's life. It might just be more frustrating than either of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Restless Recovery

****

Chapter 1: Restless Recovery

“It’s very good of you to come and pick me up, sir.” James is standing in the centre of his hospital room, sling around his neck supporting his injured arm, the other hand holding the bag containing his belongings.

“What’d you think I’d do? Leave you to the mercy of Oxford’s taxi-drivers? Or send a uniform for you? I’m not sure which is worse.” Robbie steps forward and takes James’ holdall from him, ignoring his sergeant’s protest. “Come on. I know the people who work in these places. Hang around any longer than necessary an’ they’ll find more excuses to stick instruments where you don’t want them.”

James’s lips twitch. “Speaking from experience, sir?”

“Occupational hazard in our job. Get used to it. This is – what? Twice in three months for you?”

Damn. Stupid thing to say. Hathaway looks away, down at the floor. He really didn’t mean to remind the bloke of the Zoe Kenneth stuff and their argument. Robbie sighs and moves closer, laying his hand flat against the back of James’s shoulder and rubbing briefly. “Come on.”

Outside, in the car park, James starts to pat his pockets with his good hand, then makes a frustrated sound. “What, no ciggies?” Robbie barely manages to smother a grin.

“Must have forgotten to tick that option on the breakfast menu,” James said dryly.

Robbie reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a small package, quickly peeling off the cellophane. “This do?”

“You-” James stops dead and his jaw slackens. “You bought me fags?”

He shrugs. “Might not approve of the habit, but I suppose that never stopped me when it came to Morse and his drinking.”

With a bit of effort, James manages to get a cigarette into his mouth, but then fumbles with the lighter Robbie passes him, and after a moment Robbie shakes his head. “Oh, give it here.”

He lights James’s cigarette, then stands beside the lad as he smokes, long, urgent drags as if he’s been craving this for days – well, suppose he has, really. It’s not until the fag’s more than half-gone that James turns and looks at him, careful to blow the smoke elsewhere, and smiles, completely unguarded. “You bought me fags,” he says again, voice soft, wonder in his tone.

“I’ll take it out of your wages,” he counters, flippancy hiding his genuine pleasure at James’s appreciation.

“I’ll buy you a pint,” James counters. “Two.”

“You’d do that anyway,” Robbie points out. “Mind, should be me buyin’ you for the next month. You wouldn’t be in this state if you hadn’t pushed me out of the way of a bullet.”

“I’ll make sure to remind you of that periodically for the next... ooh, six months, I think,” James says with a smirk, stubbing out his cigarette against the smokers’ grille and letting it fall inside. “Particularly around performance review time.”

In the car, James struggles with his seatbelt, his left hand just not able to reach far enough to fasten the buckle. Without a word, Robbie takes over. “Give it a few days and you’ll be able to start using your other hand a bit.”

“Didn’t realise my mobility’d be that restricted.” James sounds concerned. “It’s gonna be an... interesting few days.”

“Ah, you’ll be all right.” Robbie starts the car and heads for the exit.

“I assume we’re going to the station?”

“You up to that? Thought you might want to go home and sleep.” He glances at James, who’s holding his injured arm protectively against his chest. “Mind, I’ve got some reports needing finishing if you’re able for it.” He grins. “You can type with one hand, eh?”

“I _am_ right-handed,” James reminds him. “But I could probably manage five words per minute with my left – and, yeah, even that’s preferable to spending yet more time pretending to sleep or watching moronic daytime television.”

“The station it is, then. Good thing you keep a spare suit in the office, though I reckon you’ll need a hand with the tie.” He was joking about the reports, of course. But he can’t say he isn’t looking forward to having the lad’s keen intellect and questioning mind on the job again. They really do work better as a team, Lewis thinks, than he does alone or with anyone else.

Part of him wonders if it’s possible that Morse had felt the same way about him.

 

***

By six o’clock, Hathaway’s looking grey, and he’s winced several times as he’s shifted position. Lewis has already suggested twice that the sergeant’s had enough, only to meet protests from Hathaway that he’s fine. He’s not fine; he’s exhausted on top of the pain. He’s overdue for painkillers, Robbie’d bet, and it hasn’t helped that practically every bloody copper in the station just happened to “drop in” during the day to see how Hathaway was. James tends not to enjoy attention much under normal circumstances, and this was far worse, especially given that for most of the visitors it was pure nosiness rather than genuine concern. After the first few made it into their office, Robbie closed the door and gave Hooper instructions to send any other visitors away – unless it was the Chief Super, and even then he wanted Hooper to come and get him rather than let her in.

Now, Lewis shuts off his computer and stands. “Right, that’s it. You’re out of here, and that’s an order.”

This time, James nods. “If I can just get my bag out of your car, sir...”

Robbie just gives James a long-suffering stare.

“You shouldn’t feel obliged to drive me, sir-”

“You _should_ feel obliged to shut up before you insult me, Sergeant.” Robbie softens his words by pressing a hand briefly to Hathaway’s uninjured shoulder. “Now, come on, get your arse out of here.”

Ideally, they’d have left about an hour ago, but James was being his usual stoic self despite the obvious indications of pain, ploughing on with his work and making useful contributions to the ongoing case. Not for the first time, Robbie acknowledges that he needs to make the most of this partnership, because it’s not likely to last more than another couple of years. There’s no way Hathaway’s going to stay a sergeant anything like as long as Robbie himself did.

“Let me guess: you should’ve taken your pain pills – what? Three hours ago?” Getting into the car after he’s taken advantage of a quick smoke-break, James has just bitten off a groan of pain.

Hathaway mutters something inaudible. “What was that? Couldn’t hear you.” Robbie turns out of the car park, merging into traffic.

“Don’t need them. They just dull my brain,” James repeats.

“What, you mean being in pain doesn’t, soft lad?” Robbie shakes his head. “Don’t know what they taught you at that posh school you went to.” They drive over a badly-repaired pothole and James winces again. “Can’t help the state of the roads, but if you’d been sensible and taken your painkillers...” He glances at James, eyebrows raised.

“If you say so, sir.” The habitual smart-alec tone that would accompany that line is missing, an obvious indicator of how much pain James is in.

Not in so much pain that he misses the route Robbie’s taking. Five minutes later, he gestures at the turning they’ve just passed. “My place is that way, sir. Did you forget?”

“Not going to your place. Come on,” he adds as James looks about to protest. “D’you really think I’d leave you to fend for yourself?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble-”

“An’ now you really are talkin’ rubbish. Look, leaving aside the fact that you got hurt savin’ my life, if it was me with my arm in a sling wouldn’t you do exactly the same?”

James is silent, and as Robbie glances in his direction he sees his sergeant’s uninjured hand clench and unclench on his lap. But then James seems to relax. “Probably wouldn’t take you to my flat, sir. You’d complain about the smell. Still can’t believe you stayed the night that time.”

Because putting up with a bit of stale cigarette smoke was better than going home to an empty flat? But he’s not going to tell James that, assuming the bloke hasn’t already worked it out for himself.

James added with a half-smile, “I’d just make a complete nuisance of myself by moving into your flat for the duration. Most likely against your objections and threats to order the Chief Super to demote me. Sir.”

Robbie snorts. “Waste of time me trying to threaten you. You never listen to me.”

James smirks again, but it’s quickly wiped off his face by another wince of pain. Spotting a gap in the traffic, Robbie speeds up and can finally take the turning leading to his flat. Whether Hathaway likes it or not, he will listen to Robbie and take his painkillers as soon as they’re inside.

 

***

“Am I imagining things, or has half my wardrobe migrated to your flat, sir?” James has just noticed a couple of his suits and half a dozen shirts hanging from a temporary rail in the living-room, the result of an early-morning visit to Hathaway’s flat. He’d have brought James’s guitar, too, except that it’s obvious the bloke won’t be able to play it for at least a month.

“Don’t exaggerate. And what did I say about calling me sir off-duty?” He fills a glass with water, then sets it down on the coffee-table. “Sit. And take your painkillers.”

“Yes, Uncle.” James rolls his eyes, but does actually take them.

Robbie mentally winces at the Uncle, but of course it could be worse. He’s old enough to be James’s father, after all.

James frowns. “What’s -? Ah. Sorry, didn’t realise you were so sensitive about the age-gap.” He smirks.

Robbie scowls. “Beginning to regret buyin’ you those cigarettes.”

“Joking,” James says quickly. “I really do appreciate this, Robbie. You know what, give it a few minutes for the painkillers to kick in and I’ll cook-”

“You bloody will not. You can just put up with my cooking for a change. Not up to your standards, but I promise I won’t poison you.”

James comes and sits at the kitchen table while Robbie works, nursing a cup of tea in his uninjured hand and making occasional suggestions about better ways to prepare ingredients. “You just mean I’m doing everything wrong,” Robbie points out after the third time he does it.

“I didn’t say that, did I?” Even with the lines of pain around his mouth, Robbie spies a hint of a smirk on his sergeant’s lips.

“Yeah, well, don’t. Not if you don’t want beans on toast.”

James shudders dramatically. “Your culinary skills are beyond a doubt exemplary. Sir.”

“An’ you just remember that, Hathaway, even if I do present you with a burnt offering.”

The food’s not burnt, and it doesn’t taste bad at all, even if Robbie does say so himself. Penne pasta with chopped ham and a couple of vegetables in a tomato sauce – out of a jar, but the label said organic and low-fat so James can’t complain too much. And it’s something the lad can eat with one hand, as well. The first night’s cooking can be counted as a success; Robbie just hopes he’ll be able to keep it up. It’s a long time since he’s eaten anything in this kitchen that hasn’t come out of a microwave or a takeaway.

After dinner, they relocate to Robbie’s sofa. Collapsing onto the corner cushion, James wrenches at his tie with his left hand, succeeding only in making his shirt-collar stand up and the tie’s knot becoming tighter. “Here, let me.” Robbie nudges James’s hand away and quickly frees the knot and pulls away the now-wrinkled fabric.

James turns to look at him, his expression solemn but unusually open. “Thank you.”

Robbie rolls his eyes. “For that? That’s nothing.”

“No, not just for that. For everything. Bringing me stuff at the hospital, picking me up – buying me cigarettes, even! And now putting up with me in your home. You didn’t have to do any of it, and I want you to know that I really do appreciate it.”

“Ah, go on with you!” He gives James a dismissive wave of his hand. “What’re friends for?”

“Mostly, getting drunk and falling out with,” James says, tone dry. “In my admittedly limited experience, anyway.”

And there it is again: a clear hint – well, more than a hint; it’s a blatant admission – that James hasn’t known much in the way of genuine friendship. This, on top of what he learned about his sergeant during the McEwan case, makes Robbie’s heart twist. What has this man’s life been like? No social life now, apart from his band and the occasional evening spent with his boss. No friends that he ever talks about or spends time with – and not many from his past who seemed to either care about or understand James, from what Robbie saw. Hathaway never talks about his family, either, other than an aunt he mentioned once, and of course he confirmed the absence of family just the other day. Dead, or estranged? Either way, the end result’s the same.

He’s struggling for something to say that won’t sound either patronising or overly intrusive, but is pre-empted when James gets awkwardly to his feet. “Need a smoke.” He gestures towards the exterior door, and is gone in seconds.

Bloody awkward sod, he is, isn’t he? But it takes one to know one; Robbie’s a grumpy bloody sod himself these days. A right pair, they are.

He shakes his head in mild exasperation and goes to stick the kettle on.

 

***

Hathaway’s at his finest in dry wit when he returns, all introspection and self-disclosure vanished as if it’d never existed. He aims barbs at the guests on Newsnight – pompous politicians and self-proclaimed experts who wouldn’t know a fact if it jumped up and bit them, in Robbie’s considered opinion, though he prefers the quality of James’s insults.

And James actually shares his views on his previous governor, something he’s always been too discreet to do before. But then DI Knox – now demoted to sergeant and transferred out of CID – was around the station just the other day, and deigned to pass the time of day with Hathaway for around ten minutes while he was having a smoke. James hasn’t said what Knox talked about, but Robbie heard some of the details from one of the long-standing custody sergeants who happened to be getting some things from a squad car. Seems even demotion and transfer hasn’t rid Knox of his patronising attitude or his arrogance and dismissiveness towards other colleagues. Apparently, Knox sympathised with James on having Lewis – Morse’s dim-witted dogsbody – as his boss.

The tone of James’s response, according to the sergeant, was just a shade on the wrong side of insolence, but not enough to be obvious. “Funny you should mention that,” the sergeant reported James saying. “I learned more from him in my first day working with him – when he was still jet-lagged – than in the entire two years before that. Isn’t that interesting?”

He’d then taken a final drag of his cigarette, exhaled in Knox’s direction and then stubbed out the fag-end and walked away.

“I shouldn’t really be saying this,” James says now, “and I wouldn’t if it were anyone other than you and anywhere other than here, but... I suspect Knox was exactly who Innocent had in mind when she said something a few months before you came back about Neanderthal senior officers whose attitudes needed to be dragged into the twenty-first century. It was pretty clear, when I worked with him, that he had a problem with women who didn’t stay in what he considered to be their proper place.”

“Sounds about right,” Robbie agrees. “Remember, I’d known Charlie for years before I went on attachment. Only as a sergeant, mind. He was promoted not long before I was, and he transferred out of the Oxford station for a bit. Would it be fair to suggest that he also had a problem with clever university graduates?”

James leans his head back until he’s staring at the ceiling. “You might say that. It’s not that I have a problem with being insulted on a daily basis,” he continues. “You get used to that at public school, not to mention Cambridge. I can hold my own, within the limits permitted to a sergeant vis-a-vis his superior officer,” he adds with another faint smirk.

Robbie raises his eyebrows. “I know you can. Very well, as it happens. But?”

“But there’s a limit to how much barely-competent detective work, sloppy analysis and insulting treatment of witnesses I’m willing to put up with.” James takes a deep breath. “The day I played chauffeur for you from Heathrow, I had a letter of resignation in my pocket.”

“Bloody hell!” Robbie stares at him, appalled – and struck by the realisation of what he almost missed out on. What would these past three years have been like without James as his sergeant? Would he still be in the force either? Or would Innocent have had her way and put him out to grass at the training college? “Couldn’t’ve just put in for a transfer?”

James shrugs one-shouldered. “From what I could tell, my other options weren’t much more appealing.”

“I see.” Robbie’s smile – carefully managed not to reveal too much of his reaction to James’s statement – is amused and faintly put out. “So when you asked to be partnered with me, it was more like the best of a bad lot?”

There’s no amusement in James’s expression when he answers. “Hardly. You were the only reason I changed my mind about staying in the force.”

He made that much of an impression in three days? When he was at his grumpy, closed-off worst, what with the renewed agony of grief that hit him once back in Oxford? When he insulted Hathaway and was probably every bit as dismissive as Knox?

“Can’t say I’m not flattered – now as well as then,” he acknowledges. “Always wondered why, though.”

“Some day, maybe, if you get me drunk enough I’ll give you the full list,” James says, and his forehead’s creasing in pain. It’s getting late; time for more painkillers, and for sleep. “For now, though, here’s the most important: you actually listened to my opinions on the case, whether or not you agreed with them.”

“Course I did! What’s the point of you even being there otherwise?”

“There’s a reason they call sergeants bagmen,” James retorts, his tone dry as desert.

“Like I don’t know that? Look, I know what you mean,” Robbie continues. “Probably shouldn’t be saying this either, but then it’s you and we’re off-duty. Yeah, I know what it’s like to feel sidelined and ignored. Much as I respected Morse, and I learned most of what I know from him, he did that sometimes. Fair dos, though, if I ended up bein’ right he always gave me credit for it, even if it was sometimes grudging.”

“I think I’d have liked your governor.”

Robbie can’t help the wry laugh that escapes him. “I think the two of you would’ve murdered each other within a week. You’re far too like him in some ways – and you succeeded where he failed. He left Oxford without a degree, though he always pretended it didn’t matter to him and he still strolled in and out of the university as if he belonged there.”

He gets to his feet then, pausing to squeeze James’s shoulder in a gesture he realises is more affectionate than directive. “Come on, you. Painkillers, then bed. I’ll sort the sofa-bed for you.”

 

***

Robbie’s woken abruptly from a very sound sleep, and for a few disoriented moments he has no idea what he heard. He’s already instinctively reached for his phone, but that’s not ringing.

And then he hears it again.

“No! Please, sir, no, you can’t be!”

Hathaway. A nightmare, by the sound of it, and apparently about him, which doesn’t make a lot of sense, but then nightmares rarely do.

He’s already out of bed and heading for the hallway before it occurs to him to wonder whether it might not be best to leave well alone. Hathaway’s a grown man and might not want to be mollycoddled through a bad dream, or even to know that his boss is aware that he had one.

But then he shrugs. There’s no way he’s leaving the bloke in this state. If James does have a problem with it, he’ll get over it.

In the living-room, he snaps on a standard lamp – enough light to see by, but not enough to blind Hathaway should he wake suddenly. He can already hear James thrashing about, though he’s not yelling right-

“Sir! Please don’t do this to me!”

Damn it. Robbie walks around the sofa. Hathaway’s thrown off the duvet and, in the dim light, dressed in a thin T-shirt and boxers, reminds Robbie so much of his own son when he was a lad and having a nightmare: young, scared and vulnerable.

He sits on the arm of the sofa and reaches down, touching Hathaway’s shoulder carefully. “James. Wake up.”

Hathaway thrashes again, throwing Robbie’s hand off. He tries again. “James, it’s just a dream. I’m here. I’m all right.”

Still no response, and Robbie considers going back to his bedroom to get his mobile: like any good copper, James will be conditioned to wake, fully alert, the instant his phone rings. One more try first, though.

“It’s Robbie, James. It’s Robbie, and you’re just dreaming.” It’s instinctive after all these years: calm, steady voice, repetition of a familiar name and reassuring message; it’s what usually gets through to a shocked or panicking victim. That doesn’t work either, though, so he tries one more approach.

“Sergeant Hathaway! Are you gonna wake up, or do I have to shake you?”

“Sir.” It’s a rote response, and James’s eyes snap open – probably exactly the same reaction as if his mobile had rung. He jerks up into a sitting position, poised to get out of bed. “Where’s the crime scene?”

“It’s not a callout.” Hathaway’s gaze focuses on him, eyes wide, and he can see his sergeant taking in the fact that Robbie’s wearing pyjamas. “Just needed to wake you. You were having a bad dream.”

“Hell.” James flops back onto the mattress, then winces and grips his injured arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Robbie shakes his head. “Better’ve been a good one, that’s all I can say.”

“Eh?”

“Nightmare. Better’ve been a decently scary one, since you woke me up.”

“Oh.” James stares up at the ceiling. “Not sure I can remember. Look, I’m fine now,” he adds, glancing back in Robbie’s direction, but not meeting his gaze. “Please, go back to bed.”

“Don’t think I will. Not just yet.” He stands. “Reckon I could do with a cuppa. Want one?”

 

***

_tbc in Chapter 2_.  
  



	2. Bets and Bargains

James joins him at the kitchen table, pale-faced and strangely bleary-eyed – of course, no contact lenses – his injured arm resting sling-free on his lap as he sips his tea. 

He’s still looking a bit shell-shocked, and Robbie can’t quite decide whether it’s because he’s having tea with his boss in the middle of the night – though surely he’s used enough to them spending off-duty time together by now – or because it’s a long time since he’s had anyone to sit with after a bad dream.

If he’s ever had. From what Robbie can tell, Hathaway’s never really had a relationship; he’s never talked about anyone in his past, and he doesn’t behave like someone who knows what it’s like to be part of a couple. There’s the mystery of his parents, too: dead, or not part of his life, but how much of a part were they when they were around? Almost three years now he’s spent practically every working day with Hathaway, and there’s been none of the sort of casual mentions of childhood, family and so on that naturally come up in conversations. True, Hathaway’s about the most private person Robbie’s ever known, but that’s excessive. 

One of these days, Robbie vows, he’ll get the truth from Hathaway about his family. But not tonight.

“So, what was it about?” Robbie asks, a more direct version of his earlier hint for an answer. 

James looks taken aback, as well he might; Robbie’s breaking their unwritten code, that they don’t pry, don’t ask each other personal questions. That any signs of weakness go barely acknowledged, if at all, and are immediately forgotten about. 

“I’d really rather not-” James begins, but Robbie cuts across him. Even if this is off-duty and he’s specified that in this context they’re friends rather than governor and bagman, he knows that James still instinctively responds to his authority.

“I’d rather you did.”

James looks down at the table. It’s a few seconds before he speaks. “I was – we were – in the house on Botley Road. Only this time Carter didn’t miss.”

Robbie frowns, his gaze falling on James’s arm, complete with bullet-wound. “Or, to put it another way,” James continues, “I didn’t push you out of the way in time.”

Ah. Well, that explains what he was shouting. Though why the lad’s embarrassed about it... No. Not that he had a nightmare, but what the subject-matter reveals. 

For all his education, Hathaway really can be an idiot sometimes. Does he honestly think it’s a secret that he cares about his governor? Does he imagine it’s not reciprocated? 

“Had a couple of nasty dreams meself after we dragged you out of the fire,” he says, keeping his voice casual. “Few others over the years, too. Can’t do this job without a few narrow escapes along the way, an’ none of us can shake it all off as if it’s nothing.”

James drums his fingers on the table. “I hope you know I would never have wanted to add to your difficulty with sleeping. Including waking you up tonight.”

Robbie shrugs. It really doesn’t matter, and if James doesn’t know by now that he’d rather be woken up and be here to listen than sleep soundly, leaving James to deal with the nightmare by himself, then he should bloody know better. He won’t say that; James would hate to be thought so vulnerable. But there’s another way he can get the general point – that James _matters_ to him – across.

He takes a gulp of tea before saying, “I thought you were already dead, you know, when I went into Zoe Kenneth’s house to find you. Thought I could well be dragging out your dead body.”

James’s eyes grow impossibly wide. “Then why go in at all? Why put yourself at that kind of risk?”

Robbie bites back the _idiot_ comment that’s yet again his instinctive response. “There was still a chance you were alive. And even if you weren’t... I’d’ve preferred you in one piece than have them bring out a charred skeleton later.” 

James winces. It’s not like both of them haven’t seen enough of the latter. And then he just looks at Robbie, eyes wide, before dropping his gaze to the table again.

“That’s the job, though.” Robbie stands and takes his cup to the sink. “Sometimes, a good day just means you get to go home in one piece.” Returning to the table, he presses his hand to James’s good shoulder. “Back to bed with you. That boss of yours you’re always complaining about’s gonna want blood, sweat and tears out of you tomorrow.”

“Think you mean later today.” James stands and takes his own cup to the sink. “Thank you, by the way. Robbie.” The tone’s deeply sincere, and Robbie feels the weight of James’s gaze on him.

Robbie just nods in response and waits to turn off the light. He’s finding himself battling with the – unexpected and entirely inappropriate – urge to hold James, even to bring him back to his own bed so he won’t have to sleep alone and maybe dream again. 

Must be something to do with being woken from a decent sleep and it being three o’clock in the morning. Not a time for being rational, the middle of the night. He pushes the inappropriate impulse aside.

James pads back to the bed, then pauses and speaks again in a low voice. 

_“O God! can I not save  
One from the pitiless wave?  
Is all that we see or seem  
But a dream within a dream?”_

“Poe?” Robbie asks, and James nods, even deigning to look impressed. “Bit depressing. Hope you’re not turning into the glass half-empty sort. Got enough of those around the station as it is.

“Take me for a pint tomorrow and we’ll see,” James quips, dropping carefully to the sofa-bed.

“You’re on.”

 

***

There’s a call-out mid-morning, a man’s body found in a rusted skip behind an abandoned warehouse near Cowley. James is standing as Robbie finishes the call – Robbie smothers yet another smile at the disconcertingly untidy knot in James’s tie; he refused help with it this morning and appears unusually untroubled by its less than perfect appearance – but he shakes his head at his sergeant. 

“Not you. You’re on desk duties until further notice.”

“But-” James starts to protest, but Robbie’s firm.

“Can’t take the risk, and that’s Innocent’s instructions, so if you’ve got a problem take it up with her.” He pauses by James’s desk on his way out and briefly lays his hand on the man’s uninjured shoulder, intended as some kind of commiseration for the fact that he has to stay behind. As he takes his hand away, it occurs to him that this – touching James – is becoming a bit of a habit. “If it was just the arm – but you had concussion too. Be another couple of days before you’re cleared for normal duties. Sorry, but it can’t be helped.”

He collects DC Cottrell on the way out. It’s not the same, though the constable’s eager to please and is actually useful. Robbie finds himself glancing sideways as they work and exchange information, expecting to see a knowing smirk at someone’s idiotic observation, or a wordless nod directing him to something he needs to see. Cottrell talks too much, and in the wrong tone, and he completely misses Robbie’s casual ‘straight man’ lines, which to James would always be an invitation for laconic wit – or an esoteric literary reference.

Robbie even tries a literary reference himself, a line from Shelley, only to have Cottrell look at him blankly. Wasted effort.

The case is too easy; there are enough clues at the scene for them not even to need Forensics to lead them to the murderer, and four hours after the callout Robbie’s directing Cottrell to caution the victim’s former business partner, and then it’s off to the station for initial questioning and paperwork.

 

***

“You didn’t miss much,” he announces a couple of hours later, pushing open the door of his and Hathaway’s shared office. “A wet-behind-the-ears PC could’ve solved this one.”

James glances briefly away from his computer monitor. “I take it I wasn’t missed, then.”

For a moment, Robbie’s tempted to share his experience with Cottrell – James would be amused – but stops himself just in time. It wouldn’t be professional, at least not here. Maybe tonight, off-duty. He confines himself to their usual workplace banter. “Didn’t miss the sarcastic remarks, anyway. Though it’s possible that Dr Hobson missed the... eye-candy? That the word?” Cottrell, at five feet seven and fifteen stone, certainly isn’t as pretty to look at as Hathaway.

James shudders visibly. “If you must, sir. Though I’d really rather you didn’t.”

Robbie smothers a grin. He’s very well aware that James is secretly a bit flattered by Laura thinking him _dishy_ , but that he hates it being referred to. Which is, of course, why Robbie does it. 

He takes pity on Hathaway, spotting the pink flush climbing up the back of the lad’s neck. “I’m getting a coffee. Want one?”

“Thank you, sir, that would be very kind.”

Bringing the coffee back a couple of minutes later – black, no sugar for James, and he even remembered without being told – he sets one mug by Hathaway’s left hand. As he does so, his eye’s caught by the open folder on his sergeant’s desk, and then by what’s on his computer screen. “That’s the Millie Lennox case, isn’t it?”

The Lennox case – a long-cold case that Innocent had asked Robbie to look at a few months back, during a week when James was on holiday and work was slow. After more than thirty years in the force, not much got under his skin any more, but this case had. A seven-year-old girl left brain-damaged when, the theory went, she got in the way of a hit on her crime-boss father eight years earlier. The father had died at the scene, and Millie was found lying in a pool of her own blood by the family’s cleaner. She’d survived, but some had said she’d have been better off dead.

Of course, Ron Lennox’s known associates and enemies had all been questioned, but every one of them had a seemingly unshakable alibi. After three or four months of intense investigation, the original enquiry had been quietly left to go dormant due to lack of leads.

Robbie’d only had time to read the file and start tracking down some of the witnesses and original investigating officers when he was pulled away to investigate a double murder. Hathaway’d come back in the middle of that investigation, which had kept them busy for weeks. He can’t remember, but it’s possible that during one of their many late-night pub sessions during that case – both needing to unwind at the end of long, punishing days – he’d told Hathaway about Millie Lennox, and how he felt he’d let her down.

“I had nothing more pressing to do. Thought I’d take a look.”

A look. Right. Hathaway’s compiled a detailed timeline, by the look of what’s on his computer screen – not bad for someone typing more or less one-handed; he hasn’t missed the fact that James is using his right hand somewhat more than he should. Judging by the papers all over James’s desk, he’s compiled it through a meticulous examination of witness statements, photographs and forensic reports, and just going by what he can see on James’s screen Robbie knows that this is far better than anything the original investigating officers had produced.

Though he shouldn’t be surprised. This is James Hathaway, whose most harsh critic is himself. The work won’t be anything less than perfect, because James won’t accept that, especially when it’s important. 

He wastes a moment wondering why this is important to James, before realising that he knows. It’s important to James because it’s important to Robbie. And he’s done this in a – completely unnecessary – gesture of thanks. Specifically for last night’s post-nightmare care, or for all of it, since the shooting? 

“Budge up and show me.” He pulls his chair over to James’s desk, sitting to the left. 

Within a couple of minutes, he’s already seeing areas where the original conclusions about the case could have been wrong, simply based on a much tighter perspective on the timing of events, placement of various suspects and witnesses and so on. James has also researched journey times from place to place by various means, showing where alibis might not hold up as well as the original investigators thought.

“This is good work!” he can’t help commenting. He steals the mouse from under James’s hand and moves the cursor to the top of the spreadsheet. “So what if I were to filter by – how’ve you put it here? Known or assumed grudge against Lennox?”

“Careful, sir!” James tries to grab the mouse back. “It took a lot of work to get this-” 

“Oi.” He holds on firmly to the mouse, clicking on the filter icon to select his chosen criteria. “Might not be as up to speed as you are with technology, smartarse, but I do know my way around a computer.”

Sounding as if he’s putting on a good act of being chastened, James says, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to suggest-”

“Yeah, you did.” He casts an exasperated glance to his right. “I’ll have you know I used to be a real whiz at computers.” At Hathaway’s sceptical look, he continues, “One of the first in Oxford CID to get training, I was. Couldn’t’ve solved some of our cases without my computer skills.”

“Would that have been in the days of punch-cards and mainframes, sir?”

“I’ll have you know, Sergeant, that when computers first came into the force it was nothing like as easy as it is now. Any idiot with a Facebook can do stuff now. Back then it was all DOS and command line codes – took ages to learn properly.” He leans back and takes a sip of coffee as he scans through the filtered list. “Like to see you do a search for bank records on that system, Hathaway. Take you a bit longer than it does now, I reckon.”

James makes a poor attempt at stifling a smirk. “Just as well it’s obsolete, isn’t it, sir?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not obsolete, an’ I’ll thank you to remember that!” He scrolls down, and then frowns. “This can’t be right. You’ve got the cleaner in the grudge list.”

“No, it’s right. Where...” James starts shuffling through the manila files on his desk, wincing as he tries to use both hands. Robbie frowns at him; he takes his right hand off the desk. “It’s in the witness statement from her husband. I found it tucked away in the _not relevant_ file. He said-”

Robbie’s already found the statement and is skimming it. “Lennox had threatened to sack her without a reference the day before.” He frowns again. “Not much of a motive for murder, though, is it?”

James shrugs. “People have killed for less. Worth a punt, wouldn’t you say?”

“I dunno, my money’s still on Colonel Mustard with the lead piping...”

 

***

James is clearly competing for Best Behaved Guest tonight. They skipped the pub because they left work so late, and he’s helped with dinner and clearing away – as much as possible with only one fully-functioning arm – and for the last half-hour he’s been keeping the conversational flow going with undemanding small talk. There’s none of his usual clever sarcasm and wind-ups; clearly, James considers it inappropriate given his current position of being semi-dependent on his boss. 

If Robbie had to guess, he’d say James is compensating for last night, trying to make it as clear as possible that tonight he has no intention of inconveniencing his boss. It’s taking its toll, though: Robbie can see tension around the corners of his mouth. James is anything but a genial conversationalist, and he must be hating this.

Robbie forestalls him as he opens his mouth again, simply nudging him with his elbow. “You’re all right. I’m not gonna think you’re unappreciative or anything just ‘cause you prefer to sit in silence. Should know me better than that by now.”

“Sorry.” James’s mouth turns down faintly. “I’m not really used to…” He gestures vaguely with his left hand.

Robbie, trying valiantly to smother a grin, says, “Thought you’d be well-trained in the social conventions. Public school? Cambridge?”

“Stayed well away from anything where making polite conversation over drinks was a required skill.” James shudders visibly. 

“That makes two of us. I hate those sort of things. Wish Innocent’d bloody stop getting me to stand in for her husband at her posh soirées.”

James’s lips twitch, and then he stands. “Think I’ll go and pollute the air outside for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

He really is an awkward bugger, isn’t he? Not that Robbie has any room to criticise on that score. And, besides, he likes the bloke in spite of it – or maybe even because of it.

“Go on.” He waves impatiently. “Just don’t leave filthy butts all over my doorstep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” James gives him a solemn look, a sure sign that he’s about to be mocked. “Your neighbours might think you’ve got into bad habits. Well, worse habits than listening to Wagner.”

Robbie growls, then shakes his head and goes to put the kettle on.

 

***

The next morning, he’s off to interview his arrestee again, leaving Hathaway to look into their shortlist of suspects in the Lennox case. They’d spent a couple of hours the previous evening batting theories back and forth about how particular suspects might have been able to pull off the shootings, initially serious but increasingly tongue-in-cheek as time went by. 

James – his tie a little less untidy this morning; his arm’s allowing him a bit more movement – is still holding out for the cleaner today, though. Whether he seriously thinks she could have done it or is just arguing for it because Robbie scoffed at the possibility isn’t clear, which is typical where Hathaway’s concerned. Robbie himself favours one of Lennox’s former partners in crime, Nick Wilson, a bloke who ran a second-hand car showroom in Reading and who was known to have been screwed over by Lennox, which was the reason they parted company. The big stumbling-block there is the fact that Wilson was on holiday in Mykonos at the time, verified by hotel staff. 

Robbie ended up betting a meal at the restaurant of the winner’s choice that he’s right and Hathaway’s wrong – a bet James didn’t hesitate to accept.

“Just to keep you happy, Sergeant,” Lewis says before he leaves the office, “I’ll interview the cleaner if you find her for me. That do you?”

Hathaway’s lips twitch faintly. “Absolutely, sir.”

By the time he comes back, Hathaway’s looking smug. “I regret to say, sir, that it might be a little difficult to interview the cleaner. Unless,” he adds, his tone completely deadpan, “you feel like writing a short paragraph for the auditors in order to persuade the Chief Superintendent to approve a flight to Andalusia?”

“The Costa del Sol? Okay, this better be good.” He stands back and waits for the explanation.

Hathaway gestures to his monitor. “Three months after Millie and Ron Lennox were shot, Theresa Clark relocated to Marbella. Alone. Her husband – now ex¬-husband, I would point out – is, according to Inland Revenue records, working behind the bar of a pub in Brighton.”

“And on the strength of this you think she’s the shooter?”

“Not only based on that, no.” James leans back in his chair, looking even more smug. “There was something that didn’t feel quite right about the ballistics and forensics reports, so I took another look while you were gone.” He flips open a folder and gestures. “Does that description look like the work of a skilled shooter to you?”

Robbie looks. It doesn’t take more than a quick scan to see what the bloke’s getting at. “No, it doesn’t.” His jaw clenches. “What the hell were Phillips and Casey thinking? Didn’t they notice this?” 

“Maybe they did, but didn’t know what to do with it, sir.” Hathaway’s hand is busy on his mouse again. “And there’s this.” He gestures to his monitor.

It’s a bank statement. “What am I looking-” He breaks off, abandoning the question as he sees exactly what he’s looking at. “Theresa Clark’s bank account, with... what’s that? Four payments of twenty-five grand each, over a period of-” He checks the dates. “Six months, eight years ago. First payment one week after Ron Lennox was murdered.”

“Exactly. And before you ask, I’ve tried to trace them. The transfers were routed through several countries, some of whom do not have reciprocal agreements with the UK for tracing financial transactions. I’ve got some enquiries out, but it may take a while to get an answer.”

Two hours, and the man’s done all this. No wonder he’s got a reputation as a human computer. 

“That’s good work. Bloody good.” Hathaway’s smile is faint, but definitely there. “So, go on, cleverclogs,” he says, returning to his desk. “What’s your theory now?”

“My money’s on Theresa Clark being paid to kill Lennox,” Hathaway says. “Millie probably came into the room at the wrong moment – inexperienced shooter, panics, shoots the child accidentally. As for who paid her...”

“What’s the betting that if I take a good, proper look at Nick Wilson’s finances I might manage to find around a hundred thousand quid unaccounted for?”

The smile on James’s face actually stretches his lips for once. He taps one-handed at his keyboard for a moment or two without speaking, and then Robbie’s email pings. He glances down; it’s from James, and the subject-line reads, “What happens to the bet if we’re both right?”

He opens the attachment. It’s a statement from a Jersey bank account – and how on earth did Hathaway manage to get hold of _that_? – in Wilson’s name, showing four payments of twenty-five grand leaving the account on dates that fit with the transfers into Theresa Clark’s account.

“How the hell...” He gives up, letting out a low whistle. “Sometimes I’m just bloody glad you’re on our side of the law.” He sends the statement to print, then stands. “Right. I want both Wilson and Clark’s ex in for interviewing – squad cars, no notice, no fuss, brought straight here. I don’t want anyone having a chance to tip off Clark. I’m off to Innocent to get approval for flights to Marbella.”

“Flights?” James pauses, his phone in his hand. “Thought I was desk-bound until further notice?”

“I’ll take responsibility with Innocent. Not havin’ you miss this after you did all the work.” He pats James’s back on his way out of the office.

 

***

The ex-husband’s a pushover. He’s not in the interview room five minutes before he’s spilling everything: his ex-wife’s affair years earlier with Ron Wilson, their occasional weekends away together that still continued even after the two of them married, and the secrets she never told him. No, he didn’t know why Lennox threatened to sack her, but she got very aggressive when he asked her.

And, while he knew nothing about any payments to her, he’s been baffled for years by how she’d afforded the move to the Costa del Sol. Bloody clever bitch, he rants now. He’ll have to phone his solicitor, see if he can get his share of the money, seeing as they weren’t divorced when the first lot came through.

“Not that clever,” Hathaway murmurs as they leave the interview room. “She went to a country that has an extradition treaty with the UK.”

“Should’ve done a Ronnie Biggs and gone to Brazil, you mean?” Robbie grins.

“I’m sure the Brazilians are devastated by the loss to their economy.” 

Wilson’s not as easy to crack, though. He sits impassively, arms folded, as Robbie lobs questions at him, occasionally shrugging or offering a bland no comment. Robbie can feel James’s frustration starting to radiate from where he’s standing, leaning against the wall a few feet behind where Robbie’s sitting. He needs to learn the art of patience in suspect interviews – but that’s something that comes with experience.

It’s only when Robbie presents him with the evidence James found of Wilson’s weekend getaways with Theresa Clark that he cracks. Thanks to the ex-husband’s obsessive recall of dates and the fact that he’d actually followed his wife on two occasions, Hathaway got on the phone to the hotels. Within half an hour, they’d faxed across computer records of credit card payments.

“Bit stupid, that, wasn’t it?” Robbie says to Wilson with a genial smile. “Booking the rooms under a false name, but paying with your own credit card?”

Wilson glowers, then slams his hand down on the table. “Bloody stupid bitch! I wanted to go to B&Bs, smaller places that’d take cash, no questions asked. But, no, she had to have her posh hotels.”

“Always the way, isn’t it?” Robbie says, then opens another folder he’s had on the table. “Thing is, though, it’s not just the hotels. Sergeant?” He gestures to James. “Sergeant, enlighten Mr Wilson as to what you found in his bank account.”

James lays out the bank statements, showing the payments out of Wilson’s account matching those into Clark’s. Wilson shrugs. “So I gave her money. So what? Lots of blokes pay for sex. Just because it was money rather than jewellery or a new motor...” He smirks.

“All but one of those payments occurred after Theresa Clark left the country. And we haven’t found any evidence that you visited her in Marbella. Unless you’re going to claim that you used a fake passport, which would, of course, be a criminal offence,” James points out.

Wilson stays silent. Robbie leans back in his chair and interjects casually, “Sergeant, think we’ll need to adjourn this interview in a few minutes, or we’ll miss our flights to Marbella.”

Wilson flinches. Robbie pretends he hasn’t noticed. “So, just before we go, Mr Wilson, are you sure there’s nothing you’d like to tell us? Because I’m pretty sure that your friend Mrs Clark will want to talk, since she’s gonna be facing trial for murder. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’d want to share the blame, like. Course,” he adds, deliberately exaggerating his accent, “it’d be your word against hers, but we’ve already got the bank transfers, an’ your history with Lennox. A jury’s not gonna take too much convincing, d’you think, Sergeant?”

“I shouldn’t think so, sir,” James replies crisply. “What’re we looking at? Conspiracy to commit murder; that’d be at least ten years, wouldn’t it?”

“Could be more, given a refusal to cooperate with police enquiries.” Robbie gives Wilson a bland look. “More still if there’s any suspicion that you intended Clark to murder Millie as well.”

“I never meant her to shoot the kid!” Wilson’s on his feet abruptly, red-faced and agitated. “She shouldn’t have taken the hit anywhere near the kid!”

Robbie simply waits; Hathaway stands silently, unmoving, just at his shoulder. And Wilson crumples and confesses.

 

***

“You still taking painkillers?” Robbie asks at home that evening. 

“Only when necessary, and I’ve decided they’re not necessary.” With considerably more success than two evenings ago, James pulls off his tie and opens his top shirt button.

Robbie studies James’s face and concludes that he isn’t actually in pain, then goes to the fridge. “Beer, then. That was good work today.” He opens the bottle before passing it over. 

“You did notice how I was right?” James enquires, grinning smugly.

“I noticed how we were _both_ right,” Robbie counters.

Wilson confessed, and said he’s willing to testify, that he did pay Theresa Clark to kill Lennox. She didn’t need any persuasion, he alleged. She’d been having an affair with Lennox as well, but he’d broken it off about a week before she shot him. Millie Lennox’s shooting was an accident; Clark, inexperienced with a gun, despite having assured Wilson she knew how to use one, got startled when the child came running into the room unexpectedly, and fired by mistake, before aiming again and managing to kill Lennox.

“The Star of Kashmir,” James says. 

Robbie frowns at him for a moment. “Ah,” he says then. “But if we’re both right why do you get to choose?”

“I thought, since I was right first, you should take me for dinner. And, strictly speaking, I should be the sole winner of the bet. Clark’s the murderer.”

“Wilson’s guilty of conspiracy to commit,” Robbie points out. “You’re not getting off that lightly, man. Dinner at Strada, once you’re able to use two hands to eat again.”

“I can eat Indian with one hand,” James comments, and he’d claim he’s not being smug, not at all, but Robbie knows better.

“I’ll consider it.” Robbie gestures towards the pasta sauce he’s got heating – well, he never claimed to have much skill in the kitchen, and if James has a problem with eating the same thing several times in the one week, that’s tough. “You can stir this with one hand too, all right?”

“No problem.” James frowns as he studies the sauce, then stirs vigorously for a few seconds. “Think I’ll go home tomorrow, Robbie. I really appreciate what you’ve done, but I can fend for myself now, and it’s time I got out from under your feet.”

Robbie chucks a piece of penne at James; he doesn’t duck in time and it hits the back of his head. “Don’t talk rubbish. You’ve still got to wear that sling and you can’t drive.”

“But I-”

“But nothin’. If you go home an’ then do something stupid and break your leg, I’m the one who’ll be inconvenienced because you’re too stubborn to accept help that’s freely offered.” 

James raises an eyebrow. “I see. So it’s all about you, then?”

Robbie summons his favourite exasperated look. “Course it is.”

“Of course.” James ducks his head, and this time Robbie’s not even throwing anything at him. “Thank you. I mean it – I’m not really sure what I’d have done without you.”

“Yeah, well.” Robbie’s about to make a quip about James owing him, but then he remembers. “Mightn’t’ve been here without you, so I reckon I can put up with you a bit longer.” On his way past where James is standing, as he reaches for the salt, he gives James’s good arm an affectionate pat.

He gets a rare genuine smile in response, and for a second he actually imagines his heart’s skipped a beat. 

Rubbish. He’s just hungry, that’s all.

 

***

The rest of the case is even easier to sort, once Innocent’s agreed that the two of them should go to Marbella a few days later. The day after Wilson’s confession, the Crown Prosecution Service agreed that there was a reasonable case for conviction on the strength of the evidence, and the Home Office issued the extradition request the same day. By the day they’re to fly out, Theresa Clark is in custody awaiting escort back to the UK.

Robbie’s impressed: that so-called fast-track treaty between the UK and Spain does actually work. Back in the Nineties, a suspect he and Morse had been ready to arrest had fled to Benidorm, and it had taken a couple of years before the Spanish government had finally returned him.

He still talked Innocent into an overnight stay; Robbie insists that it’s necessary for any kind of dealings with the Spanish police, even though the procedures have been completed and it should be a straightforward matter of arresting Clark and escorting her back to the UK, where she will be handed over to Home Office officials after landing on UK soil.

“They don’t say _mañana_ just because they like the sound of the word,” he grumbles to Hathaway in the car on the way to Heathrow. 

“Oh, did you do Spanish for O-Levels as well, sir?” James enquires, his tone deceptively innocent.

Robbie pretends to scowl. “There’s times I think I deserve an O-Level for putting up with bloody smartarse sergeants.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches James smirking.

In the airport car park, James takes the laptop out of the boot, then stands back. Robbie gives him an incredulous look before picking up both overnight bags.

“Thought the idea of you bein’ my bagman is you carry my bags, not the other way around.”

Hathaway raises an eyebrow, and pointedly indicates his sling with the index finger of his good hand that’s holding the laptop. Robbie raises both eyebrows in response. “I’m keeping count. Soon as that bandage comes off, you owe me and I’m collecting.”

“Of course, sir.” Hathaway’s using his deceptively obedient voice, the one that always has Robbie on his guard for the catch. “Pints, I assume?”

“Dinners.” James blinks. Robbie smirks. “What’s the point in having a sergeant who can cook if I don’t take advantage?”

James smirks. “In the interest of separating you from nutrition-free, never mind taste-free, microwavable meals, sir – or a solid diet of pasta – I feel that it’s nothing short of a public duty to volunteer my skills.”

“Very kind of you, Sergeant.” Robbie flags down an approaching shuttle.

“Well, it’s a public service all round, really, sir. Did you know that, besides the medical benefits of a healthy diet, studies have also shown significant improvements in one’s mood as a result? And when I say a public service, I’m really talking about a service to the benefit of an overworked bagman.”

“I’ll show you how to improve my mood.” Robbie throws James the exasperated look he knows his sergeant’s expecting, and claims the last empty seat in the bus. “Monthly reports, completed on time and to Innocent’s over-exacting specification. Speeches written on demand should Innocent ever have the bright idea of volunteering me again. An’ no mocking me next time I have to stand in for Mr Innocent.”

“All that, and acting as your personal chef too?” James gives a long-suffering sigh, balancing himself as the bus takes a wide turn. “I am yours to command, sir, as always.”

“Just you remember that, Sergeant.” Robbie holds his gaze for a long moment, then relents, smiling. “Costa del Sol. Bloke at the cop shop’ll be gone by the time we get there. We’ll find a decent bar so you can try some proper sangria, not that stuff that passes for it down at the Grapevine.”

“I hope we can find a decent restaurant as well, sir. It would be nice to try some authentic Spanish cuisine.”

Robbie nods at James’s sling. “Nah. Tapas bar, I think. About all you’re good for, since you insist your arm’s still useless.”

James opens his mouth to protest, then instead shakes his head. Robbie pats his good arm ostentatiously, enjoying a smirk of his own for a change.

 

**\- end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The poem James quotes is Edgar Allen Poe's[A Dream Within A Dream](http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Authors/poe/works/dream.within.a.dream.html)_.


End file.
